


A Second Too Late

by Kaspy



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Death, Angst, Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Depression, Gen, Heavy Angst, Loss, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 09:54:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18635791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaspy/pseuds/Kaspy
Summary: John realizes who he's shooting at a second too late.





	A Second Too Late

John thought it was bad enough, the O'driscolls killing Kieran the way they did- the fight that ensued being a mere insult in comparison.

He’d told Jack, who’d been playing nearby, to run and hide as he rushed to cover behind one of the well-worn barricades that surrounded Shady Bell. Arthur was at his side for most of the assault, helping him pick off O’driscolls with ease. John had always admired the older man’s near-perfect aim.

John was usually off slightly, usually aiming a little too high. But for some reason, throughout that fight, his aim was nearly as perfect as Arthur’s. He shot the attackers without hesitation and with a strange ferocity.

So, when the few remaining O'driscolls fled, John took it upon himself to make sure they weren’t any stragglers.

_He wished he hadn’t._

He’d been walking up the hill towards the main gate when a bullet whistled past his head, narrowly missing it’s mark. John dove behind a nearby barrel and waited a moment before jumping up and taking aim- hitting the opposing gang member in the chest.

Then he heard something- a twig breaking, leaves crunching behind him. John spun around, led completely by instinct, and fired.

Except, this time, _it wasn’t an O’driscoll._

A piercing scream ripped through the air before John could even begin to understand what he’d done.

He just stood there, frozen, staring at the body of the dead boy in front of him. His boy. _Jack- he’d just shot-_ he looked down at the rifle in his shaking hands and dropped it, taking a few steps back. The screaming didn’t stop, in fact, it only got louder.

John could hear shouts too, but all of it seemed so distant- so far away. He thought about looking, just to see if he’d been imagining things, because he had to be imagining things. But he couldn’t. He couldn't look at what he’d done.

That didn’t stop the others from looking.

Panicked cries and heavy footsteps sounded behind John, Abigail pushing past him and collapsing by her son’s side. “No, Jack!” She wailed, wrapping her arms around him and sobbing. _“Jack, oh god, Jack...”_

“I-” John started to say something, words catching in his throat when Abigail met his gaze. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her eyes were a storm of hatred that made her almost unrecognizable. He was almost certain she’d pick up his rifle and shoot him dead then and there.

Maybe that would have been easier.

Instead, a firm hand grabbed his arm and tugged him backwards. It was Hosea. John flinched back, trying to pull away, but the older man only tightened his grip. John didn’t want to look him in the eye, afraid to see in Hosea what he’d seen in Abigail.

“Jesus Marston, you- you shot the kid,” Micah said breathlessly, running past the pair to stand by Abigails side.

“I didn’t mean too, It was-” John stumbled over his words. He couldn’t say it. Even if it had been a mistake, it was his mistake. It didn’t change anything. It didn’t bring Jack back to life.

Hosea continued to pull him further away, down the hill and past the gang members that had noticed the commotion and were hurrying towards Abigail’s strangled cries.

The older man wasn’t looking at John as he dragged him towards Dutch, who was just then walking out the front door. “Hosea, I heard gunshots, what’s-”

“Inside,” Hosea hissed, shoving John through the doorway and beckoning for Dutch to follow. “Close the door behind you.”

Dutch’s brow cinched together as he closed them off from the horrific scene outside. His eyes shifted from John, to Hosea, then back to John. “What happened?”

At first neither of them said a word. John didn’t want to say it, because saying it would make it that much more real. So Hosea said it for him.

“Jack is dead.”

Dutch’s face twisted violently and his hands curled into fists. “I knew Colm was a sick bastard, but- oh, John, we’ll make them pay. We-”

“It wasn’t the O’Driscolls, Dutch,”

John could feel his eyes sting as Dutch stared him down sympathetically. _He didn’t deserve the older man’s sympathy_ , and he was sure he would lose it soon enough. “It was an accident. He- I thought-”

“What are you saying, John? You aren’t making any sense,” Dutch insisted. “Hosea, will you please explain to me what really happened?”

“Dutch,” Hosea muttered, shaking his head. “It was John.”

He couldn’t take it, the way his head spun and how his chest felt like a knife had been driven through it. So, John backed up, hitting the wall behind him. Dutch looked like he was about to say something but, whatever it was, John didn’t hear it, his feet carrying him through the house and out the back door. He didn’t look to see if he was being followed, because he didn’t care.

He just needed to get away from everything, and everyone. Just long enough for the image of Jack’s body to leave his mind. He knew it never would.

Because he killed him. He _killed_ his own son.

John stopped near the edge of the swamp, collapsing to his knees in the mud and burying his head in his hands. _“Jack,”_ he choked out, tears rolling down his cheeks.

He’d never been a good father, but after he and Arthur got Jack back from Bronte- after that night he’d promised himself that he would try. He wanted to try, for Abigail and Jack, and for himself. He wanted to be better.

It was a _mistake._ A mistake that nothing could reverse, and Abigail had seen him do it. She had to watch John shoot their son.

“John?”

Arthur’s voice brought John back to the present. He lifted his head up, rubbing his eyes uselessly. The older man was crouching beside him. He’d been out, dealing with Kieran’s body. The fact that he had to come back to this made John feel even worse, his breath hitching in his throat. “Arthur, he- he’s-”

“John, what happened?” Arthur asked carefully.

John realized he had to say it at some point, and if not then, later. If not to Arthur- then to someone else.

_“I shot Jack.”_

Arthur backed up, mouth slightly ajar. “You… _what?”_

“I was just checking to see if there were any left, and there was- there was one and I shot him, but then-” John’s hands began shaking as he spoke, “Jack snuck up behind me, I didn’t know. Arthur, I swear to god I didn’t know- but, by the time I realized, he was laying on the ground and there was nothing I could do.”

The silence that followed John’s confession made him want to disappear. He couldn't even begin to imagine what the other man was thinking. But then Arthur’s hands were on his shoulders, and John stopped shaking.

“John, listen to me,” Arthur said calmly. “I think I understand, but I think you should calm down before you start saying things you don’t mean. Now, maybe we should go back to camp and-”

“I _killed_ him, Arthur! Why should I calm down? I- I pulled the trigger before I looked and now he’s dead!” John screamed, jumping to his feet and pushing Arthur back. He expected some sort of reaction in return, but Arthur didn’t do a thing. Just stood there and looked sad, like he was reliving some tragedy of his own.

Eventually, he spoke, and John could tell he’d thought carefully about what to say, “Let’s go back to camp, alright? I’ll make sure you don’t have to talk to anybody else if you don’t want to, but you have to talk to me, John. You should talk to Hosea and Dutch too.”

John took a few shuddering breaths and rubbed his eyes before nodding. “Alright, Arthur.”

The two men walked slow back to camp. At the halfway point Arthur stopped and let out a ragged cough. John didn’t like the sound of it. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, John. It’s nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Marston, please,” Arthur said quietly, placing a hand on John’s shoulder. “What’s happening right now, it ain't about me.”

John wished it was, wished that Arthur’s cough was the only- and most important thing he had to worry about. But it wasn’t, and that’s just how things were.

Dutch ran out of the house to greet them as they arrived. He looked like he was about to say something to Arthur, probably what had happened, before realizing John already had. “Come on boys, lets get inside.”

They did. John was relieved to find only Hosea standing in the dilapidated living room. Everyone else was probably still outside.

Hosea didn’t waste any time getting to the topic at hand, “This was an accident, right John?”

“Christ, Hosea, are you serious?” Arthur said, getting in between the two men. “Of course it was an accident!”

John didn’t think he’d ever seen Hosea so furious, his cruel question making the knot in John’s stomach grow tighter- the image of Jack’s body in his mind even more clear. For a moment, he thought he wouldn’t be able to take it anymore. He thought he’d finally snap- but then Micah walked through the door.

“Are you pleased with yourself, _John?”_

John pretended he didn’t hear, but Micah didn’t stop. “I always knew something ain't right with you, but shooting your own son in the face?”

“Micah, careful,” Dutch warned.

He _kept going anyways._ “I know you hated the little brat, but-”

John lunged forward, slamming his fist against Micah’s jaw with enough to send him stumbling backwards. “You’re full of shit!” he screamed, pinning the other man to the ground. “I never wanted to hurt that boy, he was my son!” He threw another punch, this time breaking Miach’s nose. “I loved him!”

“John, stop!” He heard Dutch plead, hands pulling him back.

Even after John was taken off him, Micah didn’t get up. “You knocked him out,” Hosea said, his anger seeming to dissipate slightly.

“Good,” John spat. He was past his limits, and Micah got what was coming to him.

Hosea let go of his arm, it was only then that John noticed the tears forming in the older man’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

John wasn’t sure why. Hosea had every right to be angry, to loathe him more than anything else. Mistake, or no mistake, what he’d done was unforgivable, and John hated himself for it.

 

~~~~

 

John waited until everyone else had gone to kneel beside Jack’s grave. It read;

 

_Here Lies Jack Marston_   
_Taken Long Before His Time_   
_May He Rest In Peace_

 

Nice of them to leave out the details, John thought, his hands curled into fists. Seemed that’s what a lot of people did when they didn’t know how to react- just pretended it was something different. Something other than the truth.

John knew the truth. He lived it every day, and every night. The nightmares were bad enough to keep him up for hours, but being awake was no escape.

Every time he tried to talk to Abigail she’d look at him, with just as much anger and distrust as the day it happened. The others had nothing to give him but pity, and he didn’t want it. If anyone understood best, it was Arthur. He’d told John things he hadn’t realized before. Things about Eliza and Isacc, and how he’d handled their deaths.

But nothing anyone said would ever make it alright, and John knew that. He brushed his hand against the wooden cross, his fingertips hovering over Jack’s name. He was crying again, he was sure he’d ever cried so much in his life, but he didn’t care

“Jack,” he said, barely keeping himself together. _“I’m so sorry.”_


End file.
